Jumptown: A sad legacy for urban renewal

View full sizeCOURTESY OF THE OREGON HISTORICAL SOCIETYThe vibrant Albina neighborhood in 1962.I thank The Oregonian for printing one of my favorite pictures with its editorial "Blazers get a jump on 'Jumptown' vision" (Nov. 4).

The photo, showing the Albina neighborhood in 1962, is dominated by the exuberant corner building -- all fancy brickwork, arched windows and jaunty domed turret. A café, a repair shop, Billy's Cleaners, a corner drug store and a market fill the storefronts. Cars are parked cheek to jowl. A group of African Americans stands on the corner. The sun shines brightly, and a sign for Citizen's Fountain Lunch, in the current Urban League building, springs out over the sidewalk across the street.

The picture crackles with energy. I can't be the only one who likes it -- I've seen it published before.

It is also one of the saddest pictures I know. That same block is now empty, and has been for the 20 years I've lived in Portland. Purchased by Emanuel Hospital, ostensibly for expansion, it was torn down. Now it's an ugly scab of a place. Mature trees around the lot testify to how long it has remained empty. A bright pink sign on the fence around the site says "Excuse our Progress."

The loss of a once-energetic Portland block is emblematic of a much wider loss: the destruction of the original "Jumptown" -- a vibrant, predominantly African-American part of town known for its jazz joints. Robert Dietsche, in his book "Jumptown: The Golden Years of Portland Jazz 1942-1957," writes:

"Action central was Williams Avenue, an entertainment strip lined with hot spots where you could find jazz twenty-four hours a day. ... You could stand in the middle of the Avenue (where the Blazers play basketball today) and look up Williams past the chili parlors, past the barbecue joints, the beauty salons, all the way to Broadway, and see hundreds of people dressed up as if they were going to a fashion show. It could be four in the morning. It didn't matter; this was one of those 'streets that never slept.'"

By the early 1960s, much of the area had been razed to build Memorial Coliseum and Lloyd Center. Interstate 5, known as the Minnesota Freeway because it was built over the route of North Minnesota Avenue, cut through the heart of the Albina neighborhood and resulted in the destruction of scores of residential blocks.

Choosing the name "Jumptown" for the proposed entertainment district feels like a sharp stick in the eye. The forces of progress ripped the heart out of the original Jumptown to build a bigger highway, a sports venue and a shopping palace. Dreams of speed and money.

Forty-five years on, the Rose Quarter dead zone feels like urban renewal chickens coming home to roost. If public money is "essential" to Jumptown's success, perhaps the city should think about spending instead where people actually live -- maybe just to the north in the remnants of the original Jumptown.